


The Caritas of Castiel

by fresne



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Supernatural
Genre: Other, Season 6 Spoilers, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-19
Updated: 2011-09-19
Packaged: 2017-10-23 21:09:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fresne/pseuds/fresne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel seeks his expression of Caritas, which is ever more. More. More. But he wants fusion, not fission. Never fission, which is part of his problem. In the midst of this stream of ever loosening consciousness, Dean and Sam look for a way to fix things. They fail, but it doesn't matter. Death, who is older and the end of all things besides, has his own plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Caritas of Castiel

**Author's Note:**

> So, just to be warning you, this is very stream of consciousness and mostly takes place in dreams or in Cas' altered state. It's also a loose retelling of the myth of Psyche and Cupid.
> 
> This fic contains implicit spoilers for the end of S6 and Castiel's character arc. This was written without any knowledge of S7 and without any idea where they're going other than "Eeep. Oh Castiel, this is very not good."

1.  
He watched. Eyes open wide. If they might be called eyes. Feathers instead then. Vane and rachis. Barb. They caught. The barbs. While the solar winds flowed through the hollow shafts. Hollow. Hungry. Perched as he was on the heliosphere, Hydrogen and Helium spark-crackled pinions. Filoplumes spike tufted as from a lover's hand. Love. Light. Profess love, he'd asked. Profess.

He could be patient. He had all the time in the world. He had the Caritas of a million on million on million souls. Howling.

From deep within the sun's heart, Death said, "Everything dies."

The solar winds blew and ions danced at the ends of pinions. He said, "I have died twice." He did not say that he was brought back by his Father each time for some reason unknown. Surely for this. On this there was silence. Farther. He ignored Death. He was life now. Light. Alpha.

Omega. Death said, "What is dead, should stay dead."

But he was ignoring Death at his shoulder. He watched.

He looked down. The slow blue turn of life. Unaware of all this turn of spheres.

He looked up. Flagella whipped by him as a bead of water slid over skin.

Dean and Sam sat on the sun warmed hood of the Impala and looked out at the waves; they rolled in. Dean held a beer in his hand. Condensation dripped down the long neck and over his fingers. Slow slide. Slick.

In the wide tabletop west, a drought stricken town ran slick with rain. Flooded with it and the rivers ran banks and the water like Caritas overflowed. Arms spread wide and the rain fell. Overfull, the clouds. There would be no more drought. No more thirst.

"Well, done," said Death in his ear as an Ameoba wrapped in loving embrace a Hypotrich, which waved it's cilia goodbye cruel world. Or possibly hello lover.

It was hard to tell for all that he was ancient as the skin of the world.

Protozoa skimmed cilia and water slid over skin. The drop fell. He fell once. For free will. There was no "I" in team. We. Inhaled sunshine. He saved the world. Exhaled doubt. A vampire nest burned in the sun. Exhaled despair. Djinn burned with smokeless fire. Exhaled. Dragon eyes caught light and screamed. Caught breath. Barbed breath. The ever spiraling scream from within. He looked up.

Dean took a long slow swallow. Light beer and he was light shining down. Sun kissed and sun burned and freckled. Dean had one hundred and forty eight freckles turned up to the sun.

He couldn't hear them from his perch on the sun. He could hear the screams. He always heard them. They were from the inside. Barbed howls. In space, there was no sound. He was full of sound. There was no "I" in God. Only We.

He could hear them thunder from the falling drop of water. Dean and his brother were plotting to kill him. Death said, calm as the reflecting moon, "Is this how you expected your choices to turn out."

He listened to their plans. It was a sort of love. Attention. Heat. Hand on his shoulder and a smile. Beer.

He turned a lake to beer. The fish all died. The drunks and the teenagers grew very drunk indeed and ill themselves because it was by no means filtered beer. But still. A lake of beer. Thin watered beer muck riddled. It rained little hot dogs wrapped in little pancake blankets. There would be no more hunger.

He hungered.

Once he was as tall as the Chrysler building that gleamed in the falling sunlight. That time was past. Once he was the size frail. So frail these human bodies. Wrung out torn on a hospital bed and emptied of grace on faith. Vacuoles drift.

He healed everyone at that hospital yesterday. A flick of a miracle. Flagella. Flagellate. Barbules moved in the solar winds. They prayed. The ones he saved. Healed. They prayed.

Dean took another drink from the long necked bottle between his fingers and said something to his brother.

He wanted. Reached. Burned a bush in the desert. No one saw it. Fusion. Not fission. Fusion. Not fission. Fusion. Blinked. There would be no more hunger. No more thirst.

Looked at the slowly rotating Earth. Felt the flow fall of water as the drip slid away. He stood before them. Silent and unseen. Brushed vane. Brushed rachis. Brushed barb over sun warmed freckles. Breathed in. Full then of celestial intent. Eight minutes and nineteen seconds away on the sun, he brushed beams.

Dean leaned his head back in the sunlight. Throat open and blood beat. Breathed out.

The sun breathed out. The protozoa skimmed cilia. He leaned forward. Fusion. Not fission.

He considered what form his Caritas might next take.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
2.  
Dean rubbed at his eyes. The opposite of useful. They already felt like he'd sand blasted them. He blinked at the darkened room. At the pale light that grazed the solar system wall paper as a car drove down the narrow street outside. Another day spent in dead end research.

Sam twisted knots in the bedding of the double bed across the room. Mumbled hell under his breath, but at least he was asleep. Dean glanced at the clock. 03:45 in bright red letters. He was never going to fall asleep. He considered getting up. But he'd wake Sam up. Least thing would. Dean stared at the wallpaper and watched the lights slide across the walls. His eyes closed.

The rest stop was familiar. Which was about like saying the highway was familiar. He narrowed his eyes at the table in front of him. He kind of thought he'd totaled this table when he was thirteen and had hit 1st gear instead of reverse on the Impala. He swallowed some beer. Dad had been pissed. He'd been terrified. Horrified. His baby had forgiven him. Eventually. The table looked fine now. There was a Devil's seat at the back of the rest stop. Crowley polished it with a shroud. He stepped forward and the seat was a stand of tall dark green trees that smelled like summer and fancy closets.

At the table, Death delicately dipped a long fork into a bubbling pot. Pulled out something covered in chocolate. Ate it in a precise bite. He dabbed at his lips with a red and white paper napkin. He said, "You should have some. It's delicious."

Dean picked up a fork. It was delicious. Death had good taste. The chocolate had cinnamon and chili in it and, "There's tequila in here."

Death stabbed a banana slice with his fork and ate another dip.

Dean dipped a piece of chocolate cake. He took his time chewing. Swallowed his beer. Did what he did when scared shitless. Smiled his smile. "This my last stop?"

Death drank from Dean's bottle. "You're asleep and Sleep is the little brother of Death." He put down the bottle with an echoing thud on the table and far away thunder crackled with fireflies. "I have something for you."

Some part of him knew that wasn't good, but the chocolate really was delicious. Dean licked at the burning on his lips, no sense in it going to waste.

Death put a wide shallow basket on the worn wooden table. The basket was full of little things. Dragons and toads and kittens and flowers. A burning bird meeped at him, little fellow. Blind. Runt of the litter. Pecked at by his brothers and sisters.

Dean picked it up. It clung feebly to his fingers and stung like jalapeño and tequila on his lips. Blinked its wide blue blind eyes. Dean slipped it into his eye so it could see what he saw. He wanted to keep it safe. It swam from eye to eye and keened happily.

"Interesting choice," said Death. He dipped a piece of lime into the bubbling chocolate and ate it with white teeth that crunched.

Dean hummed a bar from Iron Maiden's "Hallowed be Thy Name" and the bird sang guitar licks.

Something struck him in the gut. Dean bent over at the blow. Fell off the bench. The rest stop gave way to an alley. It looked familiar. But was about like saying that the road looked familiar.

Castiel yelled, "I fell for you!" Dean shook his head. He had to find Michael. It was the only way to stop Lucifer and save Sam. The world. Or, wait, no, they'd stopped Lucifer and, Castiel hit Dean again. Split his lips on his teeth and blood pooled in his mouth. Castiel picked him up and shook him and it felt good to be touched. "I fell for you! Why can't you listen."

Dean laughed, because really, what else could he do. Castiel hit him again and again. "You're not broken." A blow landed. "I healed you!" Cas swung fists that bloodied and hands that lifted. "I always heal you." Dean's shoulder burned. Dean laughed. He spat blood in Castiel's face. The blood burned and sizzled on Castiel's skin like a lighter to film. Pieces cracked and pealed away to leave light. He wanted to say he was sorry, but he couldn't stop laughing. It must be the burning bird in Dean's eye. Cas' eyes were the last to burn away. Wide blue celestial intent. Dean asked, "What have I told you about personal space?" as they burned to sunlight. It was a rhetorical question.

Blinked his eyes open at the dawn and sighed. Another god damned day. He sat up. There was a dent in the pillow next to his. He brushed it lightly with his fingers.

Sam watched him. Not much else to watch in such a small room. "Dean, we need to talk."

Dean rubbed his eyes. Dream that weird was just a dream. Maybe. He missed ganking ghosts. "Yeah, Sammy. Let's talk over our personal feelings over a nice hot cup of cocoa. You go first." He looked at Sam a long moment. His eyes still felt like sandpaper. Snorted. "I need coffee. You want any?"

Sam's mouth moved like he was chewing on broken glass words. But really, the Winchester family business may as well be their own ferry service up and down the river denial. "Yeah. Sure." He looked at a large velvet picture of Saturn on the wall.

Dean got their coffee. They clutched their caffeine lifelines. Drove the long road out to the end of the Keys to see a psychic Bobby knew. A little blue cottage at the edge of the wide sea. There was a sign on the door when they got there. "Boys, you're both real cute. But since I'm psychic, I know I want no part of this. So, I'm visiting my sister in Phoenix. Actually, that's a lie. Me and my sister just don't get along. Maybe I'm at Disneyland. But I'm not home. There's beer and sandwich fixings in the fridge. Help yourself." She'd signed it, "XOXO."

They looked at each other and Dean shrugged. Nothing for it. Last week, they'd gone to a crossroads and tried to summon a demon. Got an empty dial tone and who the hell knew what was going on.

They sat on the hood of the Impala. Drank beer and ate sandwiches on thick sour bread and watched the sun set over the sea.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
3.  
All those angry cries. "Why doesn't God do anything to stop this?"

He stopped this. But this was vague.

Car accidents. Plane accidents. He could stop them from happening. That lasted all of one day. It had unfortunately resulted in a large number of exploding cows. It seemed that changing the laws of the universe to prevent gas combustion from working was a bad idea. Also, electric cars still worked. In any case, there was the only prayer that mattered. "Please, Cas. I know you're pissed at whatever and hopped up on soul juice, but don't take it out on my baby." He changed the universe back so gas would burn and cars that were not electric would go and cows would not spontaneously combust. One hundred and fifteen people died in the next hour as cars practiced physics on each other. He heard each one of them. Took up the souls as they went.

Death offered him a hamburger on a toasted bun, but he wasn't hungry. Death ate it and smiled as an old red sun flickered out. "There are always consequences."

He ignored the death at his shoulder.

He would be a fisher of evil men, but it was harder than one might think. Before or after? He bounced long metal pipes through an evil man's windshield, but that might have been before. It was hard to tell, but for a brief moment, Dean believed. Smiled at him. Even if he couldn't see.

He wanted Dean to see.

He wanted.

He sent angels, his now, they were his angels, to pull every mother and child from burning buildings to safety. There were Hosannas. There was an upswing in arson.

He was powerful and not powerful enough. Screams in his ears. Songs then. He absorbed heaven. Annexed. Consumed. Conquered. He contained his favorite heaven and watched the snow fall. Thrummed with souls. Stretched back farther with all the grace of the on high. High. He burned with bright.

He swept up the virtuous into heaven. Rapture for the asking. Souls and unemployment went down with all those jobs freed. His Father had never done so much.

He needed a hand to catch every fall. An ear for the sparrows. Cold in the winter. He burned.

He stretched back farther. Farther. But he hadn't yet found his Father. He wanted to tell him about all the things he had done, was doing, would do. That his Father hadn't done, wouldn't do. He went back and picked up Dean's necklace from the trash. It was warm to the touch, but the warmth was from Dean's hand. He reached farther still.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
4.  
They stopped at a rest stop off 10 in Louisiana. Sam said, "Hey, isn't this the stop where you," he waved his hands, "took out the table?'

Dean flipped him off. There was no chocolate. There was no Devil's seat. It looked like a rest stop. They stretched their legs and kept going.

Made it to China, Texas by sunset. Pulled into the first buzzing vacant sign they saw. The motel walls were covered in lacquered fish and paintings of ugly dark ships with a whole boat load of bad fortune. A green tin box for the shower. Pieces of cork shoved into holes in the walls. The light from the bare bulb buzzed from the ceiling. Home sweet home.

Sam pretended to do research. Dean flipped through a battered copy of Busty Asian Beauties. He fed a quarter to the magic fingers, but as he lay there listening to Iron Maiden's "Number of the Beast", he kept thinking that he hadn't had a chance to show Cas magic fingers. As if somehow, that would have changed what happened or something.

He drifted on the words of well worn songs. He mouthed the words as "If there's a God then why has he let me go?" although that really wasn't his problem. He closed his eyes.

Looked around. Looked up. Souls streamed across the Chicago skyline. It hurt his eyes. Heart? Something moved in his chest.

Death stood next to him. Dark outline against that orange lit sky.

Dean pushed himself to his feet, because no way was he sitting for this conversation. He said, "Dude, you want me to do something, you need to talk to me when I'm awake.

Death's response was a desert look. "You are already doing it, which given your history of resistance is several forms of astonishment." Death's lips made some apology of a smile. "How are you enjoying Team Free Will's World Tour?"

His heart hurt. His head hurt. Pounded. He opened the red door to his left.

Blinked at the sun. At the graves. At his baby. At the broken earth that had swallowed his brother. At Cas, who brushed his fingers across Dean's forehead and Dean's terrible wounds, the external ones, were healed. Brushed hands down the side of his face and through his hair. Cas' hair looked soft. Baby chick feathers and Dean's chest pounded with hurt. With empty. Dean reached into it. Picked out cockleburs and long strands of wheat grass. He ate the cockleburs. The only way to get rid of them really. Cas rubbed his face against Dean's, rough stubble catching on his skin. "I need those."

Wind rushed gale thunder in Dean's ears. Burs cut into his tongue and scratched his cheeks as the burning bird behind his eyes sang. His fingers softly plucked burs from Cas' hair. He whispered, even though the only people to hear were the dead, "Dude, I don't do dudes."

Cas' eyelashes brushed Dean's cheek. "Dean, I'm not a man. This is just how you see me." Warm breath on his face and burning bird song behind Dean's eyes. A soft kiss and a tongue that sought the hurt. "My vessel burned away months ago." Cas pulled back. Scrabbled hasty fingers at the velcro that held his skin together. Peeled back and light poured out. Light full of cockleburs and long bunches of wheat grass. Dean piled the wheat into hasty stacks. He didn't want to let go so he could do it better. He swallowed the burs down as Cas growled protests. "I need that." Dean whispered, "No, you really don't." Words burned against light and twisted on each other. He pricked fingers and tongue and bled into Cas, who healed the wounds. The burning bird laughed. This went on and on. Cas dimmed spent into piles. He said, "I have to do this." Winked out.

Dean came awake when Sam turned on the carp light. Looked like he had a whole boat of things to say, but all he said was, "Dean. It's time." Dean got up. He was already dressed.

They drove out into the marsh until they came to the end of the road. From there they walked in the full light of the Hunter's Moon. They waded into the water and waved around plastic bags full of cucumbers, which was the stupidest thing ever.

Until a gruff voice said, "You hunt us, start an apocalypse that you derail, kill our mother, then you bring me cucumbers so I won't kill you? You really are morons." A shadow lifted from the mud. A toad-man-thing in a mud spattered silk coat. A Kappa. Soft light shone from a pool of liquid on the top of his head that had nothing to do with the moon.

Dean opened his jar of pickles and bit into a dill. It was slightly sweet.

The Kappa rolled its large round eyes. "Fine. Give it here and I won't eat your livers. Maybe."

Sam tossed his bag of cucumbers at the Kappa, who shoved them in one by one into his wide mouth. When he was done, he patted his stomach. "Good stuff." A long tongue licked at scaly toad lips. "Now what do you want?"

"Purgatory is now ground central inside an angel. We want to know if there's a way to unmojo it out?" Dean swung the plastic bag back and forth. "Can't be too good to know you'll go into an angel when you die."

"Yeah, there's a way to reverse it. It's called grab your ass and kiss it goodbye when your friend takes in one soul too many and finally blows." The shaped moved closer. "I'm a Kappa. I keep lore on fish deities. Your feathered friend look like a fish." He licked his lips. "Now hand over the rest of those bad boys."

Dean tossed him a hand full of pickles.

The Kappa ate them in a single gulp. Licked his lips. "You got more?" He didn't wait for an answer. He kind of had moves like Toad. One minute he was twenty feet away. Next he was choking Dean with a side of shoving him under the water and possibly going for his shirikodama, which Dean was really not in favor of.

"Hey," yelled Sam. The Kappa looked up and Sam put his hands together and bowed at the waist.

"Oh, yeah sorry, apologies," said the Kapa, who scrambled off Dean and bowed deeply in return. The pool of water on his head trickled off and into the pickle jar in Dean's hand. "Ah, crap," said the Kappa before he melted into the mud.

"I love Kappa," said Dean. He sealed the jar.

"Think this will do the trick?" asked Sam, who now that the whole deal was over, was giving the mud on his jeans a serious bitch face. Because you know, it wasn't like he'd been shoved under the water.

Dean shrugged. "I don't know. You heard what Bobby said. It might work like angel methadone. Now we just need to get him to drink it." Dean flinched as sudden heat flared in his hands. The bottom of the jar melted and the glowing liquid ran into the marsh. Sudden flowers bloomed across the marsh. It smelled like jasmine. "Well, there goes that plan." Dean could hear wings, but Cas didn't show. The part where Dean's clothes were mud free and smelled faintly of apple pie kind of said that he'd been there. Although, that might have been the Kappa juice. But no, Sam's jeans were still covered in mud, which got Dean an extra serving of bitch face. Dean sighed. "What can I say, we have a special bond."

Sam muttered, "A special creepy cleaning bond." Which Dean couldn't really argue with.

They walked back to the car. Dean made Sam change his pants before he'd let him in the Impala. They drove back to the highway. Dean tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. "That's it. Enough of this over our pay grade crap. We're ganking a ghost." He smiled at Sam and Sam must have been really tired, because he forgot the weight of years and smiled back. Which was kind of the point.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
5.  
He reached and he reached and he reached. Back. He saw them. Himself. His brother as they stood by the shore of the grey sea. "Don't step on that fish, Castiel, big plans for that fish." He watched his own careful steps. He looked at the shore and planned. He grew the forests of cedar in Lebanon that they might remind him of long legs. Pomegranates full of seeds for red lips. He grew the leaves of dark green that he might see the memory of eyes inches from his own. When he still had eyes. Breathed in and when was getting a little confusing. He looked back at the grey fish and he stretched. Full. He was so very full. He buzzed with it. Crackled. Ions danced on pinions and Dean slept. Hollow. He needed and pinions moved.

He made his plans. On the next March fourteenth, it was going to rain pie.

Death came to him. He said, "When there are no stars, I will be there."

He made a star from all the best things that he could find. Formed it with his rachis. With his barbs. With his howls. Set it alight to warm the world to be. That were. He shook himself. He remade himself. Twice. Stronger the second time, because that’s how it went. Would go.

He blinked and turned. He said, "You've already killed me. Twice." He paused. "I think I already said that."

He held a city in his hands. It was deep with snow. No, with volcanic ash. He blew gently, which wasn't all that gentle and the ash floated away to the sea.

Death asked, "Who do you think you are?"

He wanted to say God, but with Death looking at him so cool and calm and God's twin, if certain rumors were to be believed, he couldn't. He turned away. He looked down and saw that Dean had died again. He sighed. "He needs to stop doing that."

"Hmm..." was Death's reply.

It burned so brightly, this one soul among so many that he should not touch. Hands over the nuclear reactor then. He reached through cooling blood and bone and Dean screamed. For all that it wasn't the longed for cry, he drank it down. It was a part of his work. That which he had made, he remade. He rewove himself into blood and bone and screams. Took a quill of himself and wrote his own name into the nucleus of each cell that they might replicate it. That the mitochondria might sing it together. Dean screamed.

Dean woke up. Shook his head at the memory that he didn't have. Dean had asked him to take memory from a lover once. This was what love did. Love. Warmth. Light. It took things away.

Death moved a piece on the board. "That's actually my job." That was true, so he didn't argue. He rolled the dice and landed on Park Place. Good. He wasn't quite yet ready to reach Go and collect $200. He was somewhat afraid of what he'd find.

He stretched and inside of him on an empty Axis Mundi road, there was no car to roar down the road. No center, for it would not hold.

"You could have left him dead," said Death. "That would have been my preference." He moved a car three spaces and landed on a Utility.

The solar winds flowed through the hollow of him. He consumed Hell. Souls stood in long lines and he reached. Even though he was not sure what he was reaching for.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

6.  
Dean grunted as he slammed against the bureau in Room 18 of the St. James. A bottle of Jack Daniel's suicided on the floor. Dean decided to hell with it and blasted a salt round into old Thomas Wright, who flickered out of view. "Hurry up there, Sammy."

"Going as fast as I can." Sam yanked the shadow box full of Tommy's hair twisted into flower shapes off the wall. Tommy's hooker girlfriend had been one creepy ass chick. Sam doused the frame in lighter fluid. Flinched as the dead bastard shot the frame from his hands.

Dean hated it when the dead had guns. Someone pounded on the door. "Hey, no one is supposed to be in there."

Dean huffed. "Little busy here."

Wright grabbed Sam and threw him against the wall. Dean went for the frame and got an ectoplasmic bullet in the chest for his troubles. It stung. Dean coughed blood. From far away, Sammy yelled, "Dean!" Everything flickered like Dean was the ghost. Then it was fine. Everything was fine. Dean stood up as Wright went up in flames.

Dean looked at Sam, who wasn't holding a lighter or the shadow box, which lay damp on the floor. Sam looked at Dean. Dean swallowed. Smiled his smile. "Just a simple ghost hunt, huh."

Outside the room, someone pounded on the door. They opened the window and dropped down.

Ran to the car and drove away fast. Left rubber and kept going until they came to the mountains. They didn't say anything about it. Wasn't really a choice they made, but they drove the streets until they found a foreclosure. A row of them. Houses with white signs out front.

Broke in the middle one and warded the place every way they could. Camped out in the dark living room. Spread out rough wool blankets on the thick pile carpet. Coaxed a fire from the shiny marble hearth. Someone had had money. Once. Entire place smelled like damp. Dean fed more wood to the fire.

As he fed another piece, Sam said, "We've got to do something."

“I‘m fresh out of ideas." Dean poked at the wood and hissed as the heat burned his hand.

"Dean, you talk in your sleep." Sam tossed the remains of a hamburger wrapper in the fireplace. It hissed wet blue.

"Yeah, well, so is your face." He shook his head. "I mean. So, do you."

"I'm not the one getting touched by an angel in my sleep." Sam said it slowly. Carefully. A man in a glass house.

"No, that was you last year. Or no, three years ago." Dean sighed. "Our lives suck ass."

"No argument here." Sam spread his hands wide. "Look I'm just saying, maybe if I come along for the ride, in your dream, we can find out what his next plans are."

"I think Cas is so high on souls, he doesn't have plans." Dean shoved some t-shirts in a pillow case. "Just looking for his next fix."

Sammy looked at him with his best puppy dog look. The one he generally pulled when he wanted to emo. Dean sighed and let Sam have his way. Got a smile for his troubles.

Of course he slept. Of course he dreamed.

Of course, Death said, "What will it be Dean?" On the old worn bar, the Colt lay open. Cartridge ready to be loaded with gleaming bullets that could kill anything. Except when they couldn't. Castiel's sword lay in a pool of spilled Jack. It's surface was pitted and cracked. It could kill an angel. Except when the angel wasn't any more. A rusted scythe that didn't need sharpening lay in a pool of shadow. A shot glass of glowing liquid sat on a black lacquered box. Dean slammed the shot back. It tasted like jasmine and death. He picked up the scythe.

Death said, "Is that your choice?"

Dean slid off the bar stool. "Gotta figure the other two won't work, so why not."

Sam asked, because he always asked that sort of thing, "What's in the box?"

Death wiped the bar down with a white rag that grew whiter with every swipe on the wood. "You should be careful what you open."

So, of course, Sam picked at it. He used the paperclip from the last time Dean sold his soul. It opened with a click. "Huh, its full of hope." He looked deeper. "And all the world's ills." He snapped it shut to keep that nasty stuff inside the box.

Death poured himself a glass of something still. "Eve let those escape a long time ago."

From inside his ribcage, the burning bird sang. Dean left the bar. He left Death. But Sam followed. At his side, which was nice. Really nice. Sammy said, "I wouldn't have figured you for such a classical dreamer."

Dean said, "Screw you." The bird flipped him off too.

"No, man, it's cool." Sam held the box in his hands. It looked tiny there. Like a piece of cake. Dean took it from him and ate it.

"Dude, did you just eat Hope?" Sammy shook his head. "I can't believe you. You just ate hope."

Dean shrugged. "Come on. We've got to find Cas." But as much as they looked, they could not find him. Dean found a forest of tall green trees. They found Crowley tied to a tree pecked at by crows. Crowley said, "I never wanted wisdom. I wanted a big dick."  
'  
Sam said, "It's like you ate the 'Golden Bough' and spat out this dream."

Dean ignored his brother at his shoulder. He kept walking. He walked through the forest with its loud noises. Confusing trails that curled. Hell hounds ripped at him. His chest tattered. Sam yelled, "Dean!" and beat them off with a stick.

Dean sighed and put his entrails back inside. Headed to the green mountain that led to the sun. It grew cold as they climbed. Above them, the sun sputtered and coughed blood. In a bramble, a golden ram with long black horns glared at them. He killed it with the scythe in his hand. Killed it and it died. He might have been the ram. Throat slit. Bled out into the thorns.

He offered the bloody skin to Sam, who said, "Eww. No, I think that's yours." He put on the jacket with its fleece turned inside in a bomber jacket. He was very tired. He bled from his throat. He bled from his chest from where the hell hounds had torn at him. But he kept going.

Sam idly picked up shorn wool off the ground. Enough to fill a backpack. At Dean's look, he said, "Hey, you already ate hope. We're going to need whatever help we can get."

They air got colder and higher. They reached the top where the earth touched the sky. Cas said, "Hello, Dean."

Dean said, "Hey, Cas."

Sam said, "We brought wool." Looked at them looking at each other. Sighed, "Awkward much."

Cas put his hand on Dean's chest. Reached inside the tatters made by hounds and thorns and healed him. Closed his rib cage on the burning bird. Warm touch and wings. Feathers. Dean lay down his weary head there.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
7.  
He said, "Hello, Dean." Dean turned to look at him. Green eyes and Dean saw him, which was wonderful. If a bit confusing. He watched over Dean as a little boy in his house that smelled of pie and shouts. He stood by the gray sea and told someone, "Don't step on that fish. I have plans for that fish." He stared into eyes green as the Cedar of Lebanon. Or was it that Cedars of Lebanon were green like Dean's eyes?

Dean said, "Focus Cas." He focused on Dean. This soul among so many that he should not touch. The imprint of his hand burned on Dean's shoulder. Dean had a scythe in his hands. Not that he could have killed Cas. Not someone so small. The solar winds howled in the hollows of him.

Dean's soul burned so brilliant. He glanced at Sam. Tattered and torn. Shone in the dark for all of that. He'd pulled them both from perdition once, so it could be said that their souls were his.

Dean had a scythe in his hand. Sam held wool for knitting.

Dean said, "I'm sorry," and sliced him groin to throat with the scythe. If he'd been a man, it might have done something. He took them inside. He took them. He took hope in a box. He took faith in a burning bird in a ribcage. He took charity in gold wool that scratched and kept love warm.

He reached that final reach more.

He was at the beginning and it was all inside of him. All of it. Death said, "I told you I'd be there when there were no stars."

Death smiled.

Dean smiled a kiss on his lips. Blood. He cut Cas from vane to rachis. Barbs. They gave way. All that borrowed accumulated grace blew out into the wind.

The universe, blinked and decided to wake up.

Dean opened his eyes and looked at Sam, who asked, "Did that just happen?" He glanced at the tea, he’d drunk to enter Dean’s dream and almost dumped it on Cas.

Cas said, "Hello, Dean. Sam." Cas sat on the edge of the marble fireplace. His hands were folded together. He ran them over each other as if feeling skin and fingers and the mechanism within, which he was.

Dean said, "Didn’t you just, blow up and I don't know, create the universe or something."

"It's complicated," said Cas. "Time goes in both directions. I forgot that." He smiled sweet like jasmine from the head of a Kappa or chocolate with chili and tequila in it.

"And you kind of ate us. Did that happen or was it all the dream, because you look like you and not crazy you, which you know, I’ve been there, so I know." Sam rubbed his face and shook his head. "So, if that did happen, was it the nature of our souls, because of everything that has happened to us that tipped the balance. Or clearly, Dean was on some sort of dream quest hero journey. And was that really Death? Cas do you think that…” Sam was clearly about to have a brain hemorrhage of geek boy proportions.

"Whatever," said Dean. He stomach rumbled. "You know what? I could go for some deep dish."

Sam’s face assumed a bitch face proportional with the Big Bang.

Cas blinked.

Dean shrugged at them both. "What. I'm hungry."

Cas smiled back. "If you want pizza, I could eat pizza as well."

~~~~~  
0  
And so, on the seventh day, Cas and Dean and Sam, had deep dish Chicago pizza at Death's favorite pizza place. And if they might also have been something else by that point, well, Sam was dreamy, but Dean was too pretty to be Death. Cas put his plans for rain of pie on hold. Brushed vane and rachis on freckles. Let blood dry and flake away from filoplumes.

On that day, they rested.

Deus caritas est.

**Author's Note:**

> The next day was another matter. And another story. But have no fears, Sam got a full explanation and Dean got some excellent pizza. As to the souls, well, nothing is ever destroyed. It just takes on new form. Cas didn't change that law of the universe. So, it's all cool. Except the pizza. Which was actually quite hot.
> 
>  
> 
> Love stories. Eros. Psyche. Caritas. Not exactly what I had in mind when I pictured Castiel perched on the sun. Mind you, I didn't expect to cross 1st Corinthians, Iron Maiden, Kansas, and Greek mythology, but the Dante on the wall made me do it. I also love footnotes. Links. Caritas.  
> <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charity_(virtue)>
> 
> The idea of Castiel as macro for whatever reason brought to mind the micro. What, I'm one of three people who liked the first Hulk movie. In any case, it meant I could write about flagella and cilia and skin.  
> <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Protozoa>
> 
> There is no link to the rest stop incident. But... what can I say, I cannibalize my (or my friends) lives.
> 
> "Hallowed Be Thy Name" from Iron Maiden's "Number of the Beast" popped into my subconscious. Why not Dean's.  
> <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hallowed_Be_Thy_Name>
> 
>    
> I love Kappa too. I've been trying to work one into a story for years, and this was the first place that I didn't end up cutting the frog-turtle man back out again. Oh, Dean. According to fanfic, the Kappa isn't the only one after your shirikodama.  
> <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kappa_(folklore)>
> 
>  
> 
> I figured, Dean would want to go for an classic ghost. "Ecstacy of Gold" and all that.  
> <http://www.newmexico.org/western/experience/st_james.php>
> 
>  
> 
> I didn't really need to work in Psyche and Cupid myth references. If Dean had picked a dragon or a kitten, well, it would have been a different myth. Echidna. Sekhmet and the red beer.  
> <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cupid_and_Psyche>


End file.
